In Colour
by No.13Baby
Summary: Grissom has dreams, Sara gets a phone call. Tis a wee bit strange.


Title: In Colour

Rating: PG-13

A/N: So, 18 hour flight and naturally I decided the best thing to do would be start writing CSI fic. My first foray into the fandom, (Is new,) (Pokes around,) (Doesn't know what's going on,) so forgive! Anyways, this is probably set around season 4-ish. I think.

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He dreams about her constantly.

It had started long before those heart-thumping moments in his office when he had forced himself to eject the possibility of her from his mind before it had a chance to take hold­­­ before he had had to try not to notice the disappointment that she had beaten away before it could creep across her expression. It had started even before those forced, clumsy attempts of his at stifling her desire to leave with his own cloaked realization that he could not afford to lose her.

"_Chalk…" _

She had touched him. It was then that Sara had ceased, for a moment, to be his colleague and became his student. No longer the brilliant CSI but a woman, sweet, vulnerable, young. Far too young for him. It had scared him-- infuriated him-- this momentary loss of his colleague, her brilliance. How could he have forgotten?

It was then, too, that the dreams had started.

In them, she is unreachable. Unreachable in the sense that there is something he wants from her, or something he wants to give her, but cannot. It's not because of distance, and there is no obstruction. On the contrary, she's touching him again.

Or rather, he is touching her, on top of her, looking down. Sometimes he kisses her, sometimes more, but she's trapped, crying. He knows he must be capable of stopping this-- this rape of something dear to him.

After all, he is the one responsible.

But even as he attempts to rise, from some badly-concealed part of himself a flood of realization sends him crashing down, harder, upon her. He too is trapped.

All he can do in response to the hurt he sees beneath him is swallow his bile, grip her more tightly still, and hope that she knows he loves her.

He awakens suddenly, tense, disgusted. No.

This is not Gil Grissom, and it has gone on long enough.

He's dialing the phone before his stomach can stop protesting the burn of his flesh smothering hers, before his hands can stop shaking from the defeat in her eyes.

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"Sidle." He can tell he's woken her and takes a moment to relish in the comfortable huskiness of her voice. He stomach begins to stop churning. "Hello?"

"Sara."

"Grissom?"

"Yeah." It _is_ him; she's fine. Grissom doesn't know what to say. Closing his eyes, allowing the relief of assurance to sink in, he expects to find embarrassment along with it.

Instead, a violent flash of tears streaking her cheeks. His breathing quickens.

"So," Her voice again, calm. She isn't crying. "You need me to come in for something?"

"What? No! No, Sara, I--"

"What?"

"If--if there's ever anything you need…" he could hang up now; she would go back to sleep and forget about this.

"Gris, are you ok?"

"I am. Sara, I'm calling you because--" because if I were ever to lay a violent hand on you my world would cease to exist. "Because--" because you think I'm capable of ignoring you, and I keep it that way.

"Grissom, what?"

"Your favourite colour is green."

It is a statement , not a reason; the two parts of his broken sentence hadn't actually meant to fit together, but it's out and he feels remarkably relieved, although in the silence he wishes desperately that he could see her face.

"Because my- my favourite colour…"

"No- ok, listen. Sara," He is fully awake, finally, and growing addicted to this catharsis he feels after every word shared with her. "I know you take three sugars in your first coffee. I-I know that you chew on the inside of your lip when you're concentrating on something. I know that you could have had your pick of anywhere in the country, and you came here to Las Vegas when I needed you, and Sara, thank you for that."

It's wonderfully exhausting, and he's not finished yet but lies back down and closes his eyes. When he begins again it is more quietly, slowly. "And I know… I know that at the beginning of a shift you always smell a little bit like--" he allows himself a silent, loose sigh "--grapefruits." Grapefruits. "And it's very nice."

He thinks he could listen to her breath on the other end of the line for the rest of his life. Five minutes or thirty pass- he can't be sure- and he's almost asleep when she speaks again. It's like music to him because she sounds so delightfully and sensuously tired, and somehow he knows she's smiling.

"Grissom?"

"Yes?"

"My favourite colour is orange."

Orange.

All he can do is sink further underneath his covers, delight in this, her newest revelation, and hope that she knows he loves her.


End file.
